


The Basics Of Humanity

by DoctorJohnHolmes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Granada Holmes canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 09:03:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorJohnHolmes/pseuds/DoctorJohnHolmes
Summary: Upon the death of Milverton, Watson discovers that Holmes had kept a particular bundle of letters from the infamous safe, letters that hint upon his own blackmail. Watson's curiosity gets the better of him, and when at last he can confront the detective he finds that Holmes had been hiding a past from him in an attempt to keep his youthful mistakes behind him and maintain the mask of inhumanity.





	The Basics Of Humanity

I first took note of my friend's particular carefulness as we stumbled over the cold body of Charles Augustus Milverton, a man who once held several particularly important lives in his own hands, and now was without his own. The safe which held such important documents, those which would be responsible for the downfalls of many important ladies and gentleman, should of course they ever see the light of the public eye, was open and filled to the brim with such condemning papers and notes. It was Mr. Sherlock Holmes's mission now to destroy the documents, for the house was already stirring with the sound of a gunshot, and we hadn't much time to spare the lives and reputations of our client, as well as the other unfortunate souls who had let their secrets spill much too easily. Talkative housemaids, butlers, and grooms were responsible for the letters and papers which contained their masters' or mistresses' most dear secrets, and it was all I could do now but stand back and watch as Holmes threw great handfuls into the blazing fire. I didn't bother checking to see if Mr. Milverton was still alive, for such a villain was not worthy of my care, yet it was with some anxiousness that I stood and watched my friend at work. The house had been alerted, the police would surely be called, and here we were, dressed in black with masks around our eyes, standing at the scene of the crime. Of course we would be the suspected murderers, should our presence be discovered, and it was the fear of the gallows which made me hurry him along with quick cues of eagerness. Yet something seemed to have caught his eye, a particular note or letter that was tied up in a great bundle near the back of the safe, with the older, less useful items of the container. Surely it had some great value, for his stern face paled as he examined the thing with long, trembling fingers.   
"Holmes." I hissed in my rush, hearing now the sound of approaching footsteps.   
"Coming." Holmes said simply, tossing all but the peculiar bundle into the fire. With such delicacy he handled the one in question, tucking it into his pocket and starting the way we came through the garden. It was by a stroke of luck that we made it over the garden wall without a trouble, even shaking off a pursuer who had managed to catch my by the ankle in my flight. Yet it was with speed and dexterity that we made it back to Baker Street that night, unscathed yet shaken all the same. It was with pounding hearts and tired feet which he climbed the stairs to our rooms, keeping our steps quiet so as not to wake poor Mrs. Hudson. Yet she would be used to it these days, for Homes and I have a very particular talent of arriving and departing at all odd hours of the night while following down our little adventures.   
"Well that was quite the mystery. I feel almost as if we had resolved our problem, yet opened a completely new issue all the same. Who was that woman, I wonder?" I asked as I made my way to the brandy, pouring myself a hearty glass and holding the decanter so as to offer some to my friend.   
"Yes...yes I do wonder." Was his only response, and with that he sunk into his faithful chair and went straight for his pipe. I sighed heavily, for with such an attitude I knew it best not to bother my friend, yet still I was much too excited to allow myself any attempt at sleep. Surely I could sit up another hour or two, until finally I grew weary enough to retire. The fire was lit and burning brightly, and the never ending sounds of London life were only too obvious throughout our small rooms. It did not matter the hour, there always seemed to be at least one carriage passing by within all minutes, and always someone who felt the need to shout over what little crowd might be gathered in the streets below. Quietly I sat and appreciated the warmth, unable to concentrate on anything but the growing heaviness of my eyes, and the constant begging question of what we had witnessed there in Milverton's office. Such a curious night it had been! Suddenly my friend and I had turned to a single episode of crime, and been witness to such an occurrence that could march us on to the same fate that some of the villains in London suffered under the wrath and dedication of Holmes. Yet Milverton had gotten what he had deserved, and if his death should allow us to rest assured that his life of blackmail was over...well then it was a death that was quite well deserved. I could not well think of another solution which would spare those unfortunate lives and secrets which were stored away in that safe, most of my alternatives would undoubtedly have landed us in prison! And so I am indebted to a murderer, which is very shallow yet of course true all the same. It was close to one o'clock in the morning when I finally decided I might go off to bed, however it was with some surprise that I looked up to find Holmes sitting with the most peculiar expression I had ever caught him with. It was something that might be mistaken as emotion, which of course I did not believe when taken into consideration the usual mannerism of my friend and companion. His usual cold eyes were instead replaced with life, and they slowly scanned the documents clenched in his hands, those that could only be the very same he saved from a fiery fate in that horrible place. So human did he look now that it was almost cause for concern, for never in my time spent with Holmes had I seen him look close to shedding a tear. Tonight he looked remorseful, as if he was mourning the loss of something that meant to him a great deal.   
"Holmes, are you going to go off to bed?" I asked carefully, knowing it best not to disturb him, yet wanting to make aware my presence all the same. Surely it would not be too much to make sure he still did remember my being here, for it might be embarrassing to him to realize that his emotional spectacle was being observed. And, just as predicted, the man perked up with the sound of my voice. He blinked quickly, flattening the papers against his chest and forcing one of those sarcastic smiles which he so often wore insincerely.   
"Good night Watson." He said with a nod, obviously having heard nothing of what I had said and instead trying to dismiss me. Yet curiosity was a dangerous thing, and even though my friend and a meddler were about the same as a landmine and a wandering boot, well still I had to ask!   
"Holmes, what have you got there? What did you save from that wretched place?" I asked. Holmes bit deeper into his pipe, shaking his head and looking towards me very quickly before blinking and looking down towards the carpet once more. He was troubled, which would be a more plausible thing had it not been Sherlock Holmes in question. Tonight I had genuine worry for him.   
"It's nothing, very much nothing." Holmes assured quickly, yet his voice was quiet, as if he was still trying to summon words beyond what might be a threatening choke of a sob.   
"Forgive me then, if I do not believe you." I shot back rather hotly, to which the detective's eyebrows rose sharply. Surely he did not appreciate such a tone, especially this late at night. I realized my mistake; however I could hardly do him the honor of apologizing. It would seem as though we were both in the wrong that night, and so ever so quietly I bowed my head in farewell, and took my leave. Yet sleep did not come easy, for whenever my eyes would dare close suddenly I was roused with the images of the occurrences that had taken place that peculiar night. I saw Milverton in his study, along with the mysterious woman who brought it upon herself to rid the world of his terrible being. And most importantly, I saw Holmes bent over that document, with such fire in his eyes that I might have mistaken him for the hearth which burned by our feet! Surely those papers must mean much to him, otherwise he would not be so reactant, nor would he be so secretive. Yet what was it that Milverton might have had? Was it a little trouble from the man's past, or was it blackmail instead on someone close to him? His brother Mycroft, perhaps might be the one in question, a man which would certainly be important enough to want on a very short leash? Or was it a client of the past, which might have meant a great deal to my friend before I had come into his company? The question troubled me immensely, and I found with great despair that it was my curiosity that would end up being the death of me, for I knew I would not fall to sleep tonight or any other night should I not know the contents of those papers. And so like the criminal I had already become, I instead sat up with my lamp, waiting for the telltale signs that Holmes had departed to bed before I crept lightly to my feet. It was only a quick glance that would satisfy my need for knowledge, for surely the contents of such a document would be betrayed in the first couple of lines...all I would need was a peek. And so quietly I crept, noticing thankfully that the door to my friend's room was shut tight and the sitting room which we had once presided was now empty. I looked around for one quick survey of the darkened room, lit only by whatever flames the crumbling logs could provide me with, and noticing thankfully that under Holmes's pipe and tobacco was that familiar roll of papers which were of such importance to him. Surely if they were very private he would not let them lying around so carelessly, would he? Or at least that was my single minded rationalization, for with a task at hand I always so unperceptive. Such ignorance would certainly have disappointed Sherlock Holmes, if of course the deed itself did not over shadow such witlessness. Nonetheless I snatched at the roll of papers, coming across my prize most eagerly as I unrolled the small bundle. Not to my surprise, I found two envelopes, one which was labeled in unrecognizable handwriting to my companion Holmes, and the other written in his hand yet to a name which was only just recognizable by the tales he told me of his days in university, and of course of the Gloria Scott. Victor Trevor, if I do remember correctly the lad was Holmes's only companion throughout his older years, and he had spent some time with Trevor and his father up at their house in Norfolk. Yet other than his father's unfortunate ties with prisoners and pirates, the name was about all I knew of this mysterious man. Holmes never talked much about his past, and it was with great difficulty that I had learned he had ever gone through childhood at all. In my mind, the man had erupted into this world a well-traveled and well educated sleuth, sent only to incriminate those who deserved it and spare those who did not. Yet these letters, which were not so easily in my hands, would surely open some long closed doors as to his upbringing and his background. I began with the one which was labeled to Holmes, checking now to see how the conversation went and was carried on, and saw that this one must have been the preliminary address. It started as casually as all letters must, written still in that handwriting that must have been characteristic of Victor Trevor... 

Mr. Sherlock Holmes,   
As you might have expected these past couple of months have been quite difficult for me, for work is not too easily come by in England as it had been before. My father's inheritance has left me plentiful, yet I suspect there must be brighter horizons for me out there, and more prosperous futures. It is with great regret that I write to you so delayed, for it must have been a year since my problem here, yet still you have played across my mind many times. It has been many a time when I thought to write, yet something else always comes up which might prevent me from ever getting around to it. Yet I write you now, regretfully in a selfish sense, for it is a request which I ask of you. I have made the decision to move to India, to try my luck at tea planting. I feel it quite beyond my right to ask this of you, dear friend, yet it comes to mind my particular loneliness. I thought of no one better who to accompany me than you, for our past together does bring back particularly fond memories. Perhaps our future too, could be just as pleasant. I know that you must have a life there in London, yet still I do beseech you to consider joining me. We could be quite wealthy, Sherlock, and quite happy as well. I know it was poor of me not to say it since we last parted, but do remember Sherlock that I love you very much. After this year of painful separation, my heart still does remember.   
Yours truly,   
Victor Trevor

My heart might very well have stopped as my eyes scanned that letter, and it took quite a couple of tries so that I could finally finish the thing with breath still kept in my lungs. I could hardly believe what I was reading, a note which seemed so obscure it might very well have been written for some sort of cruel joke! Was this Holmes's way of punishing me for my curiosity, by laying fake documents around to startle me in such a way? Yet the letter appeared to be genuine, the creases were folded very poorly, yet very accurately so that they were beginning to tear, as if the thing had been opened and closed many a time in its duration. And the handwriting, well of course Holmes could feign a hand should it be of use to him, yet why would he go through the trouble...   
"Couldn't sleep, Watson?" Holmes presumed quietly, his voice coming from the rather shadowed portion of the sitting room, near the hallway which I had crept through previously. My blood ran cold, and for just a moment I felt something of a trapped animal, not unlike those who my friend had caught red handed at the scene of their own crimes. I, just like those fiends, had been faltered by that cold glare and that trying brain, as finally Holmes lit a candle and neared my side. He saw the letter which was clenched in my hand, and although I attempted to duck it out of his view there was no denying that it was the intention of all of my secrecy. Yet in a way, I felt as though there was no need for myself to be the one interrogated, for while it was with some mischief that I had uncovered these facts, they still needed very much explaining on his part. Holmes let out a great sigh, something that would allude to the fact that while my discovery was inconvenient, it was also in a great way inevitable.   
"Holmes, how can you explain such a letter?" I asked quickly, turning so that I might face the almost unrecognizable expression of my friend. His entire persona may have very well changed in my eyes, for while I had always taken him to be a cold and emotionless man, well it would appear as though this Victor Trevor knew him to be something much different. Someone who he might dare confess his love to...oh what had I unearthed, and what parts of it might be the truth, and what might be falsified? My stomach twisted anxiously for Holmes's response, yet still he stared at me with stern yet surprisingly emotional eyes, which now housed what I might detect as embarrassment, concern, and above all...sadness. Regret.   
"Have you yet read the response?" he wondered carefully, walking slowly towards his chair yet not sitting down. Instead he stood next to the fire, staring into the flames as if it was easier to have an excuse to look away.   
"No I haven't." I said quietly. "Why did Milverton have these...how could he have possibly known?"   
"Milverton is a persistent fellow, that I must admit. He knew that he must have something to weigh against the most influential characters in London and all of England, I dare say. I was no exception." Holmes said simply, the candle now set upon the mantle and his hands settled deep in his trouser pockets. He looked deeply troubled, yet I could not spare his emotions now. I could hardly think of my questions now that I was allowed to ask them, yet it was with great difficulty that I raised the second letter. It was already out of its envelope, and in a rather sloppier version of the detective's familiar handwriting. He must have heard the papers rustling, for just as soon as I dared unearth the letter, his voice interrupted me sharply.   
"Watson, I dare admit that what you are about to read is very personal. It is a document which was written in my youth, when I was newly a man and a very confused...very susceptible thing. You will not see me in the same light, Watson, if you do read such a thing." Holmes admitted quietly.   
"Yet I may read it?" I clarified, unsure if Holmes was giving me a warning or a threat. Quietly he bowed his head, and I took that as my guarantee. Certainly the document troubled me, yet the mere promise of an emotional time in my companion's life was surely enough to spark my interest. Still I could not imagine him having any sort of human feelings, yet he seemed to treat these letters as if they would reveal a softer side of his life, which he had attempted to keep hidden away for all of these years. And so, it was with trembling fingers that I dare read his reply... 

Victor,   
Your letter brought a well needed smile to my face, for we are all not blessed with the fortunes of an inherited estate. The world of London is a nasty one, and the scum of the criminal class is just about as displeasing as might ever be. Yet it is a formidable enemy, one which I am determined to disrupt in my near future. You know my methods, of course, and know that I am a much needed consultant to these folks down in Scotland Yard. Dare they call themselves detectives...It is with a heavy heart that I admit I cannot leave with you, as tempted as I confess to being. I see myself in London more than I might have imagined, and a future here is surely fitting to my peculiar sort of lifestyle. I do wish you the best of luck in the tea business; lonely as you might grow there I do offer you my heart as extra baggage. You know it will not dare reside with anyone else, for I have yet to meet a gentleman who is any fraction as tolerable or as desirable as you. Oh how my cheeks flush just writing such a thing down in words! Words are much more permanent than thoughts, yet I declare my love to you in both forms, just to be sure you understand my legitimacy. Be well, dearest Victor, and keep me in mind in your future endeavors.   
Forever yours,   
Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Startling as the first letter had been, such a response written undoubtedly by Holmes was enough to nearly put a stop to my heart right then and there. Such shock overcame me that the paper would have dropped to the ground, had I not been clutching it so tightly as I read. And so it is true, there was no forgery, there was no trick in play after all? Victor's question and Holmes's response...well undoubtedly there was more complexity to my friend than I had been aware of before!   
"Such things do, undoubtedly, make me more of a monster than might have been previously assumed." Holmes muttered quietly, hearing by my struggling breaths that I might have been done reading. Yet I approached him in a single step, feeling as though my legs might very well give out on me should I continue any farther.   
"Holmes this is...this is unbelievable." I managed instead, thinking of course why such documents might be held as blackmail. What I had taken as a cold, unusable heart was instead something much more confusing, something which had puzzled not only the psychological world but the social aspects as well. Holmes was not an emotionless creature, he was a homosexual. I took another breath, this time more amazed than afraid, as I realized of course how much sense that made. In fact it was an almost comforting trait, knowing now that his humanity presented itself in a different form rather than being completely inexistent.   
"Watson it is past...he is past and I do best to forget about him when my mind allows it." Holmes managed in a very small, pained voice.   
"You were in love once?" I clarified again, setting the papers down upon his chair and approaching the fireplace to stand at his side. It was very uncomfortable to have a conversation with the back of his bent head, especially when I felt I would be missing the most influential and life changing emotions of our time together. Surely this was monumental?   
"Watson, it was merely child's play, merely a small infatuation which I in my youth could not hope to understand." Holmes corrected coolly, shaking his head in an almost shameful way. "What a fool I was in my past, Watson. And what a fool I had still grown to be."   
"Holmes you don't need to be ashamed, of course such a thing is a tad unorthodox but it is not entirely uncommon! It's a perfectly human, perfectly redeemable trait to fall in love." I assured him quietly, thinking there was no better option than to console what could only be described as pure despair. Holmes looked to ache so terribly bad, not only because of his past influences but also of the future pain such permanency had left him with in his adulthood. To think that Milverton held these condemning things in his safe, when was he planning to use them? When did he think it the best time to threaten Holmes's career and his life as a free man?   
"It's NOT!" Holmes exclaimed in a sudden fit of anger, slamming his palm so violently upon the stone mantle that I was afraid it might shatter. In my surprise I jumped, and yet as soon as he noticed my fear he softened, shaking his head regretfully and taking quick, short strides away from the fire and away from me. As if I was in some way alighting his anger even more, or possibly making him uncomfortable by my proximity.   
"It is not human, nor will it ever be redeemable the love which I had for him. Never will it be accepted, or understood. I am, and always will be as it would seem...something of an ungodly mistake." Holmes managed painfully, clenching his fists and closing his eyes in a quick moment of mediation. He attempted to calm himself, yet such efforts were wasted without any use of self-medication. I knew that as soon as I left the room he would go straight for the opium, a habit which seemed all together understandable given the constant emotional pains which my friend must have been burdened with all this time.   
"Holmes I am glad to hear that you have at least the capability of falling in love. It makes you exceptionally more understandable, and more human." I assured carefully.   
"Yet with a man? Surely Watson you understand the issue in such a passion." Holmes snapped with a wince, as if it physically pained him to talk of such things with me. As if his past history was rooted much deeper in his present than he would prefer.   
"I see it as more of a solution than a problem in itself." I assured in a determined, stubborn sort of way. Holmes merely sneered, turning away and making his leave now towards the hallway, obviously to go and sulk in the privacy of his own room. I almost stopped him, for there was such a new sort of visibility between us that I wanted to see more, more into that complicated man and more into his ever complicated heart! Yet I was spared the trouble, for before I could open my mouth to question him he instead stopped on his own.   
"Nevertheless, Watson, I was wrong in my youth." Holmes began quietly. "I had assumed that a man such as Victor occurred once in a lifetime, and that so complicated a man as I am would not be blessed with another understanding and compassionate companion. I know now that I was incorrect in that theory. Such a man happens at least twice in a life time. That I know now for sure." And with that he marched off towards his bedroom, snapping the door shut tight and refusing another word the whole evening. It was not until a few moments after his departure that I was able to fully understand the complexity of his final words. It was not after I was much too late to say anything back that I understood he was admitting to finding another desirable companion, and alluding to someone which he might be able to love. Of course it was long after I was sitting in my chair, alone for the rest of the night, that I knew he was talking about me.


End file.
